


Turn it off and on again

by starrylizard



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hangover, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Hurt Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016), References to Depression, Stitches, or maybe PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28088520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrylizard/pseuds/starrylizard
Summary: Post s4 - Jack has returned from his mission. Jack and Mac are each in a bad headspace, but maybe they can find a way to help each other.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 37





	Turn it off and on again

**Author's Note:**

> I am unsure when or if a part two will appear, but I think part one is resolved enough not to leave you hanging. The intro feels a bit different in style, but I needed one to explain where they're at.
> 
> This fic was plotted in a Team Alpaca discussion and I ran with it. Credit to y'all. 
> 
> Also part of my personal engineering t-shirt challenge. In this case "Cycle Power to the Panel: Turn it off and on again." which I'm taking as rebooting Mac and Jack's partnership after so many years apart.

0o0o0 JACK

When Jack returned, mission accomplished, there was a darkness hanging over everything. He’d kept his sanity with dreams of Mac’s deck, of laughter and easy silences with people he had a genuine drive to be around and protect. But he isn’t the same and neither is anyone else, least of all Mac.

Months had dragged into a year, then three years, and Jack knew it wasn’t going to be easy for any of them despite the comfortable warmth of his dreams. He underestimated how changed he’d been by all he’d seen and lost chasing Kovacs. He knew from the few messages he’d managed to exchange with Mac, Riley and Bozer that a darkness had crept into his Phoenix family too, and he wasn’t blind enough to assume he could just saunter in and make any of it better.

His things were moved to Mac’s garage after the temporary shutdown of the Phoenix Foundation. His apartment rent was not deemed a sustainable expense by the army on an open-ended mission. Now Jack slept on the couch or sometimes on the deck, when he slept at all. He had the spare room of course, but it felt too closed in for now.

He walked the in-between with no destination in mind; it simply felt wrong whenever he stayed still. The open Californian sky was a balm to his soul that he didn’t know he needed. Movement kept the darkness at bay. The anxious energy wasn’t new. He got familiar with it after Delta, before he joined the CIA, between his last deep cover op and his sudden decision to reenlist and ship out to Afghanistan. But he’d never been deployed for three years straight before. The short and rare long weekends back home to a strained sort of happy notwithstanding.

He wasn’t good, but neither was Mac. Problem was, Jack wasn’t sure if there was enough of him left to patch things up and get back to some semblance of a new version of his old life. The one where he loved and protected the family that he’d built around him. Held them close and safe above all else as they held him together. The one place he’d been happy, before he accepted a mission that, despite good intentions, may have ruined it all.

0o0o0 MAC

Mac was relieved to have Jack back. He really was. After three years he’d found his mind going to dark places, wondering if his friend would ever return as promised. He just wasn’t sure how to feel or what to say. He’d fallen into a trap of speaking to Jack as if he was there, even though he was deployed. He’d spent many hours sitting at Jack Dalton Senior’s grave and pouring his heart out over a six pack of whatever beer was on special that week; discussing the latest sadness and guilt falling heavy on his heart and mind alike. It was like being co-dependent on a ghost, one he hoped was still alive somewhere between the covertly short contacts they were allowed and the deafeningly long silences.

Returned Jack barely seemed to sleep, at least his bed was rarely slept in. Mac was aware that Jack moved to and from the house, but he’s rarely seen him. It’s as if, three years, fifteen days and five hours after Jack was deployed, and the Kovacs mission finally ended, maybe Jack didn’t really make it home in one piece. Mac hoped the ghostly graveside companion he’d been keeping alive wasn’t all that remained of the Jack he remembered.

This Jack hadn’t been there for all those heart-to-heart chats that lived in Mac’s mind. The Jack that returned was darker, heavier somehow. His movements that used to expand to fill a room, now seemed dim, tired and hesitant.

Mac felt he didn’t have the right to burden this new version of Jack with all the things he’d shared at Jack Senior’s gravesite. Death and guilt and distrust now formed Mac’s day-to-day existence; his litany of failures stalked his days and stole his sleep. Jack’s council, even imagined, had helped Mac get through.

Now, Mac drank in the evening, putting away the alcohol no longer for relaxing pleasure, but as mechanical attempt at self-soothing that he was smart enough to know was not very good. He builds things constantly when he isn’t on a mission. He doesn’t twist paperclips anymore; everything must have a purpose. Work is all that he has now, more so than ever before, and the idea that maybe with every save, every win, every good intention, just maybe, he can reduce the loss and guilt and pain a little. 

This is the man Mac has become.

He feels wrung out and stripped bare. He doesn’t know if or how he can help Jack to push back the darkness, when he doesn’t know how to help himself.

0o0o0

Jack had driven to the Santa Monica Pier. He walked the famous beaches, passed briefly through the throng of tourists loudly entertained at the famous amusement park, and shared a pie with the seagulls as the sun started to wane and the famous ferris wheel was back lit by a purpling sky.

When the sky was as dark as it could get with LA’s light pollution, faint stars shining, he walked tiredly to the GTO, scrunched up the parking fine plastered to the glass and headed back to Mac’s place. Not home. Not these days. But a place to sleep, if only briefly.

The house was dark. Jack set his keys in the bowl by the side table with a quiet chink of metal on ceramic, then froze as he sensed he wasn’t alone. He reached for the Glock concealed only by his baggy shirt and cocked it, not bothering to hide the sound.

“I know you’re there,” he stated in a no-nonsense military voice. Keeping his gun trained forward, Jack flicked the lights on.

Mac’s head snapped up, squinting into the light as if Jack were a teenager home late for curfew and now busted by an irate parent. He didn’t look remotely scared or apologetic as Jack lowered his weapon.

“What the hell, Mac?”

Usually Mac was out, asleep or consumed with a project at this time of night, but tonight found Mac apparently waiting up, with enough empties beside him for the smell of beer to permeate the room even with the sliding doors open.

“Look what the cat dragged in. I wasn’t sure you still lived here,” the words were quiet, but not pleasant.

Mac waved the half-finished bottle in his hand and seemed to melt even further into the couch. It wasn’t a remotely relaxed posture though and that, more than the words, kept Jack on edge.

Jack stowed his weapon and quietly raised an eyebrow unsure how to handle this situation. He thought he and Mac had been pretty actively avoiding each other. Jack was walking on eggshells around Mac, making himself scarce so as not to be a bother while the black dog of depression followed him around. But he had been fairly sure the avoidance had been mutual.

“You almost gave me a heart attack, hoss. Maybe leave some lights on now and then.”

Jack chuckled half-heartedly, trying for a levity he didn’t feel. His hands shook and he clenched them into fists for a moment before running one over his mouth and through the stubble at his jawline.

Mac didn’t reply, except to stare at Jack with a silent intensity that makes the air in the room turn heavy. Jack could suddenly feel the walls of the house close in on him. His heartbeat echoed in his ears as he walked quickly out onto the deck and leaned against the railing, sucking in fresh air as he stared blindly at the city skyline.

He felt, more than heard Mac follow him outside. His inebriated footfalls were an unsteady rhythm on the wooden decking. Mac leaned on the railing too, far enough from Jack to be well out of his personal space.

“You really can’t even stand to be around me, can you?” Mac stated, his words slurred a little.

The words hit Jack harder than a punch ever could and he turned from the view to face Mac, denial ready on his lips, but Mac wasn’t finished.

“I thought we could talk. But it . . . it was selfish. I know I’d only burden you further, and . . .” Mac paused as he flung his arms out wide in a hopeless gesture made larger by alcohol and fatigue.

He wavered for a moment as his balance failed him and then his hand came down, still holding the bottle, and hit the top of the railing. The smash of the bottle was loud in the silence that followed. Mac raised his now empty hand, and blinked slowly at the blood dripping freely from his palm.

Mac was not close enough for Jack to prevent the damage, but he was in front of Mac almost before he was aware of moving. He picked up Mac’s hand carefully in both of his own, gently inspecting the injury. The cut was long and deep across Mac’s palm but, as Jack gently manipulated each of Mac’s fingers, he was satisfied here was no real functional damage. Jack let out a relieved breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

"I don’t think it’s bad but, I think it’ll need stitches, hoss." 

Jack’s words were as gentle and when he straightened up from inspecting the cut, Mac was staring directly at him; so still he gave the impression of a deer frozen in headlights. Jack was so close that he could feel Mac’s breath hitching slightly and see the glossy shine of unshed tears in his bloodshot eyes.

Jack released one hand from Mac’s and squeezed his shoulder instead. “Hey, let’s wrap this up, bud.”

Mac nodded in silent agreement. There was nothing out on the deck to use to staunch the bleeding, so Jack tugged Mac’s arm, using his hold on Mac’s hand to lead him back inside. Mac followed placidly enough. None of the aggression was on display from before, but this new behaviour wasn’t any less worrying. Jack was torn between slapping him for a response and giving him a hug. He did neither.

Clearly, Mac was correct. They did need to talk. But right now, was perhaps not the best moment for it. Inside, Jack grabbed a fresh dish towel from the kitchen and wrapped it around Mac’s hand. Mac sat obediently on the couch, some of the empty bottles clinked as his foot accidentally knocked against them, and Jack went to grab the first aid kit.

Jack knelt down in front of Mac and carefully unfurled the dish towel, then dug around in the first aid box until he had a roll of bandage. Mac’s hand was only bleeding sluggishly now, clearly no major blood vessels were hit, but that wasn’t too surprising with a cut across the palm.

“Let’s wrap it up a bit neater, then I’ll drive. Your choice, emergency or Phoenix med.”

“You stitch it, Jack. You’ve done it before in the field. I’m not going to medical like this, and I’ll be waiting hours at emergency,” Mac’s voice was flat, but his eyes were determined steel. Even after more than three years, Jack knew that look well.

“Emergency would be better. I’ll wait with you. We’re not in the field, Mac. And there’s nothing in here to numb your hand. I . . .” Jack’s voice caught a little and he swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt you, Mac. Not when I don’t have to.”

“Little too late for that,” Mac muttered under his breath, but this close to him there was no way Jack couldn’t hear it.

“What was that, hoss?” Jack breathed.

“You heard me. And I’m plenty numb enough already.” Mac brought his head up, defiantly staring into Jack’s soul as he kicked the bottles at his feet again, deliberately this time. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“I guess I deserve that.” Jack spoke despite the lump in his throat. “Fine. I’m not going to fight you on this and you need that hand stitched or it’s just going to get infected.” Jack threw the bandage, still in its plastic wrap, back into the first aid box and pointed to the kitchen. “You know the drill, several minutes irrigation under the tap. Scrub it out gently. I’ll set up on the kitchen bench.”

Thank Phoenix for insisting on over-stocking medical supplies in and around their agents. Jack dug through the first aid box with a purpose now, retrieving a suture kit, antiseptic wipes, sterile bandages. He’d laid several large triangle bandages, straight from their plastic wrap, out on the benchtop after wiping the whole thing down with antiseptic, just as Mac turned from the sink.

“You’re sure you want to do it this way?” Jack asked one more time.

“Yeah, I am.”

Mac pulled up the stool on the kitchen side of the bench using his uninjured left hand, settled into it and then laid his right hand in the middle of the sterile space Jack had set up. Jack looked at Mac’s face, his eyes determined but sad, and couldn’t help but at least feel a little relieved that there was absolute trust in that gesture.

Mac had just given him his _hand_. And despite whatever was going on with him, he’d essentially just said _I trust you to stab my hand with sharp things_. Even as he had no desire to hurt the kid and would rather be driving him in to medical; if this was what they had for now, Jack could work with that.

Jack grunted, snapped on gloves and opened an antiseptic wipe packet. Taking Mac’s hand, he cleaned right into the cut, eliciting a small hiss from Mac, then around it. Once he was done, he looked back again at Mac, one eyebrow raised as he paused before ripping open the suture kit – an unspoken final chance to back out.

Mac raised an eyebrow too and nodded to the kit. Jack ripped it open.

He steadied Mac’s hand, positioning it at the best angle for him to make sutures, then he started talking.

“I’ve been walking a lot lately. Need the space to not think too much, you know? Seems better than the last time I was in this headspace and just sat on the couch.” Jack shrugged gently. “So, I was at the pier today and the sunset was so lit up, it reminded me a little of Texas. I mean, clearly not the setting, not the beach and the wheel, but the colours, you know?”

Mac grunted in surprise as the small curved needle pushed through his skin, clearly concentrating on Jack’s lilting words, maybe even Jack’s admissions contained inside them, rather than on his hand. Jack tied off the first stitch and positioned the next, ignoring as best he could the small breathy sounds of pain that Mac was apparently incapable of containing tonight. Likely the intoxication had made him less aware of his reactions than usual.

Mac’s fingers twitched now and then, though his hand remained in place. So, Jack kept talking. Words flowed without too much thought as he kept his attention on the delicate work, and on making sure, he hoped, that he wouldn’t be the cause another scar on Mac if he could prevent it.

“I know you’ve been in a bad place too and, I thought . . . I don’t know, I guess I thought I wouldn’t burden you further with my troubles,” Jack continued.

Mac made another noise that sounded like pain, but Jack hadn’t repositioned the needle yet. He looked up in surprise to see Mac’s expression was an unreadable mix of sadness and something else; guilt maybe. Jack quickly moved back to stitching, pushed the needle through a little too quickly and Mac twitched and gasped. Jack stopped immediately.

“Sorry, sorry, hoss. That one’s on me. I’ll give you a moment, okay. Breathe it out. Anyway, the colours at the peer were amazing tonight, purples and reds and . . .”

“I was waiting up for you tonight,” Mac cut in on Jack’s rambling monologue. “I did it wrong though. I didn’t mean to . . .” Mac sighed. His fingers twitched again brushing against Jack’s arm. His shoulders slumped forward further and Jack brought his own head down to bump their foreheads.

“You don’t have to apologise, kid. Let’s just finish this patch job first . . .” Jack tapped Mac’s hand gently. “. . . and work on patching the rest from there.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Mac’s words were quiet again, accepting. Jack repositioned the needle as Mac stoically straightened himself back up.

Jack was good at this, if he said so himself. His hands were firm and steady when he needed them to be. Afterall, he was a sniper. This was simple in comparison. Needle driver in his right hand, forceps in the other and he used his left arm to hold Mac’s hand in place a little; tried to stop his fingers twitching quite so much.

“Only two more, okay. You got this. What was I saying, oh yeah, you ever seen a real Texan sunset, kid? We must’ve seen at least a few that time you came for Christmas on the ranch. I once kissed the prettiest girl in my senior year on a haycart under that kinda sunset. Well we kissed first and then . . .” 

“Jack?” Mac’s exasperation was feigned and it felt just a little bit like old times for a moment.

In Jack’s peripheral vision, Mac’s mouth twitched into something like a small smile, despite the hiss of pain that followed as Jack poked the needle through once more and finished off the next stitch.

“All I’m saying is there’s good memories to go with Texan sunsets.” 

They continued on that way, Jack talking of things of little of consequence until the job was done. Mac moved his hand, testing the stitches a little before Jack gently ran another antiseptic wipe over them and then bandaging it all lightly. Jack stood and balled all the packaging up inside one of the triangle bandages and trashed it.

Mac stood up just as Jack was drying his hands after cleaning up. He saw Mac wobble, unsteady on his feet. Then Mac went suddenly paler than usual.

“Jack?”

Jack was close enough to quickly grab him and steer him to the sink. And as he held him up, rubbing calming circles in his back while Mac threw up violently, Jack realised he’d been an idiot to make himself scarce. They needed each other, always had, and as the alcohol and pain combined to just about take Mac’s legs out from under him, Jack propped him up against his side and steered him to bed.

He was sure of one thing, something needed to change.

0o0o0

Mac woke up to a splitting headache and the feeling that something had crawled into his mouth and died. He groaned, shifting to his back before deciding that was a terrible idea. The move left his head spinning, even before he’d opened his eyes, and he swallowed down on the nausea. He became aware also of a throbbing pain in his hand.

Cracking open one eye, he brought his hand up to his face and stared at the bandage. There were spots of blood on it and Mac carefully peeled it back to take in the stitches underneath . . . and it all suddenly came back to him. The waiting, the confrontation and how Jack had cared for him. He’d cared for him, even though he was behaving like a stroppy drunk teenager.

“Ugh.” He squeezed his hand closed, letting the painful pull of the stitches clear his head a little.

He cracked both eyes open and looked more carefully around the room. On the bedside table, settled carefully where he’d see them, was a bottle of water, an Alka-Seltzer, some paracetamol and plain crackers. Next to the bed was a bucket. Mac felt his eyes water as a lump formed in his throat and he found himself rapidly blinking back tears.

He wasn’t a baby and he didn’t cry over a splitting headache or nausea no matter how disorientating they felt at this moment. It was by no means the first time he’d woken up feeling like an idiot for drinking and knowing he’d do it again anyway. But he couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared for him like this. Cared enough to leave comfort items on his bedside table. 

When had his life become so complicated, that he was crying over crackers and water and drugs? And he was, crying that is. He realised that at some point, lost in thought, he forgot to blink back the hot tears now flowing down his face.

Mac curled into a ball facing the thoughtful beside gifts and he let the tears come. He sobbed, eyes squeezed shut and face tucked beneath the comforter in the hope he wouldn’t be heard, but he sobbed nonetheless. He just let himself wallow and sulk and feel like he hadn’t in so long.

At some point he realised there was a warm hand rubbing careful circles between his shoulders. A voice he knew so well, yet had missed for so long, was murmuring something comforting in a Texan drawl thick with worry. Mac opened his eyes to find himself staring straight into Jack’s face. The man had at some point entered his room and knelt down in front of him and, with that and the simple act of placing crackers on his night stand earlier, he’d made Mac realise all that was missing from his life right now.

“. . . Let’s go, hoss. We’ll pack up, take off, just the two of us. We can get our shit back together and we can do it together, yeah? What do you say?” 

Mac tuned into the words, not knowing how many had come before. He’d stopped crying now, but his shoulders still shook a little as Jack continued to rub a soothing pattern along his arm. Jack’s big brown eyes looked hopefully into Mac’s own. His eyebrows furrowed in that worried look that had always made Mac feel a little guilty for causing it. It didn’t make sense that Jack could still be so kind after the way he’d behaved last night, but Mac didn’t want to move. He didn’t want it to end.

“Mac?” Jack asked, his hand pausing the comforting movement. “Did you hear me?”

“Yeah. Yeah whatever you want Jack,” Mac murmured, thankful when Jack gave the back of his neck a gentle squeeze.

“Good. You try some crackers and water and I’ll pack us some supplies. You’ll see, this might be what we both need. Just pack yourself a go-bag and I’ve got the rest.”

Jack shifted off the floor, knees cracking with the effort, as he left Mac to slide himself up against the headboard and carefully reach for the water bottle. Mac only wished he knew what he’d just agreed to. 

0o0o0

By the time Mac stumbled out of the shower and into jeans and a flannel shirt over a plain white t-shirt, his wet hair askew and his eyes still squinting at the lights, he was feeling marginally more human. He could hear Jack’s footsteps trekking up and down the internal stairs to the garage. No doubt he was loading one of the cars for the trip. Which car he was loading would depend on where they were going. Where Mac had agreed to go.

Mac grabbed a medium-sized duffle from the back of his closet and briefly contemplated his options. Layers seemed the best idea. He always packed layered clothing in his go-bag for missions anyway and, since it was cooler this time of year even for L.A., it would let him cope with any weather wherever it was they were going. Toiletry bag, underwear and socks, an extra pair of shoes and his jacket and he was pretty much done. He added a hat, his IFAK, a reusable drink bottle and a packet of water purification tablets just in case. The duffle was barely half full, but that wasn’t a surprise, after all his entire lifestyle was about travelling light.

Bag packed, he sat down on the end of his bed and scrubbed the heels of his hands into his gritty eyes. There was still plenty of room in the bag and he really wasn’t sure how long they’d be gone. Decision made, he moved to his dresser and rummaged in the bottom drawer until he found the bottle of whisky he stashed for a rainy day. As he was lifting up some of the clothing in his duffle bag to make a soft pocket for it, he felt rather than heard Jack freeze behind him.

Mac paused in his movement as Jack, now aware he’d been noticed, made a noise somewhere between clearing his throat and a pained sigh. Mac, felt himself freeze like a deer in headlights, breath suddenly coming too hard as his throat felt tight with shame. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Jack as he moved in close enough to lean in next to him.

Jack reached a hand out cautiously until he was also holding the bottle. His large ring clinked against the glass in the silence between them and they both winced as if the bottle were an IED that could explode at any moment. Mac could hear Jack’s breath also coming too harshly.

Jack’s voice was low and soft when he finally spoke. “Maybe, let’s try without that, hoss?”

Mac slumped, not sure what to say, but he released the bottle and Jack pulled it out of his slack grip without a word and backed away, moving back to the doorway as quietly as he’d arrived. Mac swiped at tear that slipped down his face, but still couldn’t make himself turn to face Jack.

“I’m almost packed,” Mac all but whispered

“Take your time, bud. I’ll back the truck out and meet you out front when you’re ready.” Jack’s receding footsteps matched his quiet words as he left Mac to gather himself back together.

For a moment, Mac thought about not going. But that thought was childish. Jack was right. The last few moments had just proven that, as if last night hadn’t already. Mac pushed his thumb along the line of stitches running through his palm and sucked a breath in at the pain it caused him even as he used it to center himself.

They used to work everything out as a team. Mac and Jack, inseparable, co-dependent, like family. This might be the hardest place they’d had to get out of yet, but if they could live through Cairo and come out better for it . . .

With a deep breath Mac stood and shouldered the duffel bag. He locked the front door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for all the help AnguishMacGyver and anyone else who put up with my usual whinging. :)  
> Thanks for reading. Comments always appreciated.


End file.
